Savage
by emmiemac
Summary: Gripped by post-battle bloodlust, Sandor ravages his little bird but her wolf rises fleetingly to challenge the dog. Futurefic. Profanity. Generous measure of PWP, with a twist of non-con. The hurt/comfort comes at the end.


_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

**SAVAGE**

It snowed heavily on their way back. The men were both exhausted and exhilarated. Their sortie against stragglers from the Frey and Bolton forces had been brutally successful. Sandor himself had lead the vanguard, one of his first test with the Northmen who had so far only accepted him grudgingly. Until he had swung his sword alongside them and killed their enemies, he had felt like he was being protected by the little bird, rather than him protecting her as was his proper place at Winterfell.

He saw her on the battlements with the Blackfish and the little lord, Rickon, as they rode towards the gates. Her hood was up but he saw her white face and the dark blue of her eyes and the quivering of her lips as she gazed down on him in relief. One gloved hand gripped a merlon before she tore herself away, running along the high wall to descent into the yard.

Sandor tightened his grip on Stranger's reigns to allow the Greatjon to enter the gates first. Though the huge man had slapped his back heartily after the battle, Sandor had known how little he had liked following a Westerman into battle; the Greatjon was known to grudge the vanguard to even his own Northmen. Until he has truly accepted, Sandor would have to keep humble and keep his place.

"Victory! My Lord; my Lady," Greatjon Umber greeted the little bird and Rickon with a bow, "a great victory for your house and for the North!"

"For the North!" The soldiers in the yard echoed. "For the North!"

"My Lords," Sansa replied, "we are pleased beyond words to have you back safely, and victorious. There is meat and mead in the great hall, and fires to warm you," she looked straight at Sandor. "Pray, follow us inside, and we will toast your victory…for the North."

...

"Sandor?"

He hesitated. She was calling to him from her chamber door as he tried to sneak past, hoping not to be heard.

He turned slowly, a look of impatience on his face. She looked so lovely; and vulnerable now: the Lady of Winterfell was no longer apparent. She had stood at the high table in the great hall, greeting and praising each man who stepped forward to speak to her, praising their valor and giving each of them her gratitude and her smiles. He had avoided her even as her eyes had sought him out. It was not the time to have her attention; he knew that even if she didn't, it was not the time for her to show that she cared for him or that she valued him more than the others. They were still exhilarated by battle and full of piss over their own strength and fighting skills. One misunderstanding, one misstep and swords would be drawn.

Besides, she looked too beautiful, too assured, she was too fucking much and if he got near to her he would not be able to restrain himself from having her for his own: a kiss, an embrace, anything that would make her _his_, not theirs, not the Lady of WInterfell whom they all wanted to protect, whom they all wanted, if he was any judge of men and their looks. If any of them got too close to her, he would be the one to draw his sword and kill them all. His head was pounding so he grit his teeth and took more wine from a passing servant. He had stayed long after she had left the hall, conferring with the Blackfish. He thought he had escaped her, until now.

"Not now, little bird," he rasped, "I'm very tired."

"Please," she almost begged. "I missed you so; I was frightened but…I couldn't say so, not to anyone."

He walked towards her and as he did she opened the door wider and walked back into her chamber, so he would have no choice but to follow. She stood at her table pouring wine for him.

"No more, not tonight," he told her.

She set the cup down and turned back to him. "You're angry with me: why?"

He sighed, exasperated. "I'm tired, bird; I've returned from fighting and the fucking cold and I need rest."

"Some of those men are badly injured," she said, ignoring his plea, "they may still die. I-I sent them…"

"I told you once before, little bird: knights are for killing; soldiers too. They want to fight; you heard them: _for the North_. Fight and even die, and some of them do it for you, that's true: just like in your songs," he sneered somewhat at her. "And it wasn't just you; the Blackfish, the Greatjon, myself: we all decided to make this sortie, with your boy lord's consent as well. So stop feeling sorry for yourself," he ordered.

She looked hurt. "That's not fair," she insisted. "It was not myself I felt sorry for, or worried about, it was them and you, Sandor, you most of all. I-I just need to be with you…" she tentatively raised her arms to embrace him.

"Don't." He grabbed her wrists and held her off, shaking his head. "Not _now_, Sansa," he warned. His heart was pounding and making the blood surge through him, making his head ache and his cock strain against his breeches. But she stepped closer, her eyes dark and pleading, and stretched on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. He gasped and felt a jolt run through his body, so that as she tried to step back he tightened his grip on her wrists and pulled her closer. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her against him, kissing her hard so that she could scarcely breathe. He felt her resist and try to pull away and it only spurred him on. He squeezed her tightly and lifted her off the ground, stepping to where he remembered there was a table and unceremoniously dumping her on top of it.

_Stop, dog: not now, not her._

It was too late: the bloodlust was on him and he was with the woman he loved and wanted, who said she loved and wanted him. Sandor has never taken a woman at such a time unless she was being paid or, in some cases willing: his strapping size had enticed some of the more adventurous wenches to spread their legs for him. Most had limped away.

_She's not a wench, not a whore. Stop._

He tore at his laces. When Sansa tried to sit up he pushed her down and scrambled to reach under her gown, pushing it up hastily and fumbling at her smallclothes before simply tearing through them.

"Sandor," she gasped, "wait!"

He didn't. He fell on her, jerking her knees up and holding them apart before thrusting his cock into her to the very hilt, just as he would run his sword through an enemy.

"Gods!" he rasped through clenched teeth. _So fucking good_. _Why did it have to feel so good?_ He gave several more rough thrusts before he heard her over the blood rushing through his head.

"…hurting…" she whimpered.

He saw her fiery hair loose beneath her, her blue eyes, wet and round, and the way she was biting her lip and wincing. But he couldn't stop, not now.

"You said you needed this," he panted as he latched onto the edge of the table over her head with both hands, "well so do I, my _Lady_," he rasped harshly.

"Lady," she murmured vaguely, but he ignored her.

He grunted with every thrust, and even adjusted his stance to brace himself for the shattering peak he knew was coming. He felt her soft hands reach around him, one slid down his breeches to his buttocks, the other to the nape of his neck:; he gave a satisfied growl, believing he'd tamed her. Suddenly her claws sunk into his flesh and she tore savagely at him, making him yelp and jerk away in shock. She pushed him off her and leapt down from the table, staggering slightly as she passed him.

Sandor reached behind his neck and felt a stinging wetness and when he brought his hand in front of his face he was astonished to see his own blood. His mind reeled and he turned to her.

Sansa paced back and forth furiously before the hearth. Her hands were balled into fists and she was panting heavily. She looked at him with narrowed eyes now.

"You will _not_ have me like that," she told him, her voice low and threatening, though tremulous. "You promised no one would hurt me: _no one_. You were _hurting_ me!"

His head was still pounding; he stood there stupidly with blood on his hand and his stiff, hard member poking out of his breeches. "It's hurt you before," he told her lamely.

"I was a _maid_! Of course it hurt; but you didn't _mean_ it then. You meant to hurt me now," she accused.

"Sansa..." he reached out to her.

She slapped his hand away with a snarl. "No!"

His eyes widened in surprise and he tried again to appeal to her. "Sansa, list-"

"No!" She slapped his hand away again; then she slapped his face, hard.

He looked her in amazement, his unburnt cheek stinging. Her eyes were narrowed, an eerie deep blue like a night sky, and her nostrils quivered with anger while her breasts heaved from panting. Then she bared her teeth at him. He felt another jolt of pure lust: her defiance and her wild passion was enflaming him. He saw red again and lunged for her.

Sansa sidestepped him swiftly and easily then backed away and circled slowly, all the time eyeing him warily. Sandor made several grabs for her wrist which she evaded but soon she found that she had backed herself between the hearth and the bed, the wall behind her. She looked around wildly, seemingly trapped and so Sandor snarled in anticipation. Sansa threw herself across the bed with a strangled cry, almost crawling away until his hand closed on her ankle and he dragged her back to him as she growled and flailed and clawed at the furs beneath her.

"Come here, little _savage,_" he rasped threateningly. He sank his free hand into her hair near her scalp and yanked hard, making _her_ yelp this time. When she brought her hands to her head instinctively, he shoved his hands back under her skirts to grasp her hips roughly and jerk her hard up on all fours.

"_Dog_," she hissed at him.

"_Bitch_!" He tore away what remained of her tattered smallclothes, set his knee on the bed and drove into her again, nearly blinded by the sudden shock of her heat around his cock. He stayed there, deep inside her, fearing he'd spend himself if he moved. He reached for her hair again, wrapping the soft, thick length of it around his fist before climbing up on the bed over her. She was panting shallowly.

"Gods, Sansa," he rasped close to her ear, his hot mouth trailing down to her neck, "oh gods, your heat: you're a wolf, a bloody she-wolf in heat."

She snarled low and struggled weakly, one of her hands reached out blindly behind her but he caught it in his, twining their fingers together.

He fumbled under her gown to bring her hand to her heat. "Feel, Sansa: it's so _hot_."

He used her hand in his to stroke her now, gently but firmly, and he began humping over her, tucking his hips forward and clenching the muscles of his buttocks as he drove into her with deep, languid thrusts, each time drawing a deep grunt from the back of his throat.

Her lush heat tightened around him and he felt her quivering; her panting was heavier and she started to whine: high, thin cries from what seemed like a distance. She would peak soon, he was certain, even of this strange she-wolf. He tugged at her hair again, pulling her head back to expose the length of her white throat.

"Howl," he rasped, nipping at her delicate skin and laving his tongue hotly from near her collarbone to her jaw, "howl, you little wolf-bitch."

He thrust harder now, gritting his teeth and growling. Sansa pushed back against him, arching her back and shuddering around his cock before tilting her head back and giving a keening cry of release. She dropped her head just as suddenly and gasped.

"Sandor," she breathed, "gods, my mate, my love."

He wrapped both arms around her shoulders and buried his mouth in her neck. He made a few jerky, hard thrusts and spent himself powerfully inside her, squeezing her harder as he peaked and muffling his ragged cry in her soft warm skin. Panting still, he kissed her behind her ear and drew her down next to him as he lay on his side, curled around her back, his arms still wrapped around her. He stroked her hair now and gently nuzzled her neck and face.

"My lady, my wolf," he rasped softly.

Sansa breathed a ragged sob. "They killed her: my Lady…my wolf."

He remembered now. He lifted his head and looked down at her. "No. Not completely, Sansa; she's in you. Don't you feel it?"

She shook her head. 'No. Not often," she relented. "Not enough," she whispered sadly.

"Hm, I certainly felt it enough," he jested, showing her his bloodied hand. She averted her eyes.

"You hurt me."

"Yes," he admitted. He knew he should be sorry but he wasn't, and he didn't lie, not even for her. "You could have called for help," he noted shrewdly, "any of these men would have killed me for you…as much as for themselves," he remarked bitterly.

"I know," she told him quietly.

"Do you, then? So what just happened?"

"I-" She looked away again.

"Sansa?" A gentle prompt.

"I- I think I wanted to be hurt…to feel pain-," her voice broke.

"…like the men who fought for you," he finished for her.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that tears leaked out and she nodded.

"Little bird," he said soothingly as he leaned to kiss her face again.

"How did you_ know_?" she almost wailed.

He sighed, shaking his head. How could he tell her that, tell her all he learned about himself in the Quiet Isle? How he realized his drinking, his whoring, his crude and fearsome behavior was mostly calculated to keep people away, to cancel out any chance that he could even imagine having the things he believed he could never have: a lady's love, a family of his own, a home, respect. All the things people do to hurt and undermine themselves because if they didn't try then they couldn't fail. It hurt Sansa to send men into battle, and so she sought to punish herself for it; and she feared that if she were strong that she would grow heartless.

"Because you're not Cersei,' he said instead.

Sansa turned to look at him, shaken to hear _her_ name.

"You're good, and kind; and those men aren't pawns to you but people. But hear me, Sansa, though they fight for you it is because you are the North to them, and they fight for the North."

She twisted towards him and lay on her back now, looking up at him.

"I've not known men like this before, little bird; perhaps the Westermen or those from the Riverlands didn't have to work hard enough, they had too much peace and prosperity. Mayhaps that's why so many deserted to turn outlaw: they felt they were fighting for some lord who didn't know or give a rat's arse about them. But here they have to work harder to stay alive; they fight the winter and the meager harvests and the wilding raids and even each other from what I've heard."

Sansa giggled at that; some of the Northemen could be fractious, and they held grudges. _The North remembers._ They remembered the Boltons, and the Freys, and had their blood on their swords to show it.

"You're the North to them: your house, your family; but never forget it's the North they are fighting for…they're fighting for themselves, Sansa; not just because you tell them. And they'll die for it too, whether you tell them to or not."

He leaned closer and rasped: "But don't imagine they don't love seeing your pretty face up there, smiling at them and telling them how brave they are."

He sat up now and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "You're strong, Sansa; you can do this. You're a wolf; more than you're my little bird even," he remarked regretfully. He moved to stand.

"No." Sansa implored, and grabbed his forearm. "Please, stay with me."

"I can't. You know that." He stood up.

"Everyone knows," she ventured.

"Everyone thinks they know; I'm not going to buggering confirm it for them. I still have a long way to go before they accept me, little bird…" He laced up his breeches now. "The fighting will help; openly sharing your bed will not." He paused and looked down at her until she looked back. "Still drinking the moon tea?"

"Yes," she nodded reluctantly.

"Good. The Lady of Winterfell can't have bastards."

"Rickon wants us to marry," she smiled wistfully.

"Rickon wants a big brother for himself; it's not a husband for his sister he's truly thinking about."

"What do _you _want, Sandor?"

He bent over and took her lovely sad face in his hands. "I want you to know how strong you are, and how capable, Sansa; if you know that someday and then you still want me, then we can talk to your little lord brother." He kissed her forehead softly. "Sleep now, little bird; mayhaps you'll dream of your wolf and you'll listen to her, if not to me."

Sandor walked to the door and opened it a crack, peering out into the hall. Seeing no one, he slipped out and shut the door quietly behind him.

Sansa closed her eyes. "Help me, Lady," she whispered, "help me to be strong for him."

Outside the window, she heard a distant howling.

FINIS

A/N: Thanks and credit to weshallflyaway for having a wolf-Sansa think of Sandor in terms of 'mate'; I then thought a dog and a wolf would not be like to mate delicately.


End file.
